


Faults

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3 ficlets in which Mycroft reveals character faults whilst seducing Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Impatience

**Author's Note:**

> I laughed when I realized that all of these random ficlets I wrote could be titled after Mycroft's issues. And then I decided to upload them with their titles. These are all fairly old, and you may have read them before if you follow me on Tumblr (or if you were active on the kink meme when I was!), but they're on AO3 for the first time.

Sometimes, Mycroft wonders if his little brother is trying to get Lestrade hospitalised. Particularly after an entirely unnecessary chase of a few idiotic suspects clearly intending to return to an already-known bolt hole... a chase that took place during what Mycroft can only call a deluge. He sends the car after Anthea alerts him to the (adorably) bedraggled state of his favorite Detective Inspector.

“Your nutter of a brother--” Lestrade begins, squelching into the hall, and Mycroft loses all will to resist kissing the truly thunderous frown from his face. Lestrade tries to hold him at arms’ length, to save Mycroft’s suit from the sad fate that has befallen his own, but Mycroft is having none of it. He is a master, after all, of all sorts of persuasion, voiced and otherwise. Still, Lestrade is shivering, and Mycroft knows that it is not (regrettably) from lust.

“Bath?” he whispers into Lestrade’s ear before biting down gently on the lobe, and smiles in triumph when this shiver is accompanied by a gasp. 

“Might not come back out,” Lestrade murmurs back, and Mycroft makes a soft, noncommittal humming sound in reply. They can cross that bridge when they come to it.

Mycroft is accustomed to Lestrade’s hurried early morning showering sessions, in which steam barely has the time to cloud the mirror (which would be all to the good, he supposes, if Lestrade didn’t dress in the blink of an eye). When half an hour has come and gone (minus the ten minutes it took to peel a disgruntled Detective Inspector from his suit, and then to change into some pyjamas himself), Mycroft gives into his very selfish and base desire to see, rather than simply imagine, the form that is gracing his tub. It’s possible, as he told himself sternly not long ago, that Lestrade needs a moment to unwind. It’s also entirely possible that he is waiting for company. Mycroft should be a good host and find out which is true.

The sight is one to thrill even the most jaded gaze, and Mycroft doesn’t bother to hide his appreciation, no matter how much sincere compliments, spoken or not, disconcert Lestrade. He so rarely gives sincere compliments; in his line of work, he rarely has the chance. And yet, when he does, Lestrade turns red (a rather fetching shade, though) and turns away. 

But not today. Lestrade’s head is tipped back, arms lax on the sides of the claw-footed tub, fingers curled gently. His eyelashes flutter in the most innocently enflaming manner as he looks up at Mycroft, and his eyebrows draw close. “Something the matter?”

“Nothing at all,” Mycroft says meaningfully, letting his gaze wander where it will. Lestrade sighs and shifts, starting to sit up, and Mycroft assures him hurriedly, “You don’t have to get out.”

“No, I should. I’m all pruned.” Yet he lingers a moment, and even smiles a bit at the way Mycroft’s eyes trace the lines of his body. “You could hand me a towel.”

“Must I?” Mycroft sighs, but does as Lestrade requests. It would be a feat of unimaginable restraint not to reel the man in and lick the water trickling down his neck. Mycroft doesn’t even attempt it. 

“Mycroft--” Lestrade sighs again, gustily, and gasps when Mycroft very gently bites that all too tempting neck. He is relaxed and biddable in Mycroft’s carefully managerial grasp, and if Mycroft has his way (as he so often does), there will be many, many baths in the future. Possibly in a new tub, with jets. A tub that is large enough for two.


	2. Jealousy

Lestrade’s chest moves slowly, breath even and deliberate, even as Mycroft crowds him into the wall just to the left of the computer desk and to the right of the window. Slow and deliberate; as slow and deliberate as Mycroft cannot be, here and now, with lust and jealousy surging in his veins.

He nips at Lestrade’s jaw and smiles at the response: a tiny, choked gasp, and a twitch of those lovely, capable hands that hang loosely at his sides. He’ll have more than that, much more, before the night is through. He licks his way along Lestrade’s jawline and sucks at his earlobe before biting it, hard enough that the twitch moves through Lestrade’s entire body, his breath stuttering.

The world has narrowed, been cut down to just one man and his damnably difficult shirt buttons, and Mycroft can’t contain a growl at the temerity of the stupid, useless things even as he yanks them off, satisfaction flaring like lightning. 

Lestrade’s eyes are closed; his breath has sped up and his hands are shaking a bit, as if he yearns to touch. Mycroft cradles that beautiful face in both hands, panting against Lestrade’s parted lips. “Look at me,” he orders, swaying closer, so that their hips bump together so sweetly. “Now. Look.”

His eyes open, dark and reserved and lovely, and Mycroft licks at his chapped lips until Lestrade breaks just enough to spread his shaking hands flat against the wall. Then Mycroft swoops in, kissing him earnestly, teasing and cajoling before taking control completely, cradling Lestrade’s skull in both hands. 

His knuckles scrape against the wall and he breaks the kiss, moving to bite and suck low at Lestrade’s throat, his hands dropping lower to fight with Lestrade’s belt buckle. Lestrade’s hips are moving now; tiny, searching thrusts that frustrate Mycroft’s attempts to lower the zipper but he doesn’t begrudge them in the least. At last, he pushes trousers and pants down, takes a deep breath and hums in pleasure at the clean, sharp scent of Lestrade’s sweat. Then he steps back and holds one hand out, pressing lightly against Lestrade’s chest, when the man moves to follow him.

He wants to savour this; the unbearably sweet curve of Lestrade’s cock, the way his fingers curl in and out of fists, even the way he bites his lower lip. It’s all too beautiful. Mycroft can’t remember if he’s ever desired anyone else. He lets his hand fall from Lestrade’s chest to take the man’s own, trembling hand; smooths it from its half-curled fist and presses a gentle, dry kiss to the palm.

Lestrade moans at that, and surges forward, pulling Mycroft into another dizzyingly heated, wet kiss. They fall back against the wall together and Mycroft shifts so that his left knee parts both of Lestrade’s, humming again with satisfaction when Lestrade begins to ride his thigh, clutching tight to Mycroft’s shoulders and gasping out little sobs of pleasure.

He pushes back again, smiling fondly when Lestrade tries again to follow, but he cups Lestrade’s jaw and draws his thumb over those beautifully abused lips. Lestrade’s tongue peeks out, touches his thumb so briefly, before he settles again and allows Mycroft to strip, watching every efficient movement with hazy eyes. He leaves his clothes draped on the desk and sets to removing Lestrade’s.

As he kneels to remove Lestrade’s shoes, Mycroft hears Lestrade’s head thump against the wall and smiles; takes his cock carefully in hand and sucks him in deep. At Lestrade’s strangled cry, a wave of tenderness sweeps through him and Mycroft swallows twice around him before pulling away. Lestrade is shaking his head back and forth, still pressed against the wall, his knuckles white with strain as he keeps his fists back to the wall as well. Standing, Mycroft can see beads of moisture on his eyelashes and moves closer to kiss them.

Lestrade well and truly breaks, crying out and grabbing Mycroft, flipping their positions and pressing Mycroft against the wall, rutting against him desperately. Mycroft holds him close, concentrating on the slippery slide of skin over skin and on the sweet, wet heat of Lestrade’s gasps against his neck. He only just manages, by biting down hard on his own lip, to keep from coming when Lestrade shakes and comes apart, leaning on him, his head dropping to Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft lets him rest there for a moment, holding him close even though his body aches with each rise and fall of Lestrade’s chest. He presses his lips to Lestrade’s spiky, silvery hair and urges him up, pausing for a just moment to gaze into those sleepy dark eyes. Lestrade manages a grin, even a soft, breathy chuckle, and Mycroft kisses him hard enough to steal that breath away before pushing off the wall and steering them ‘round the desk, into Lestrade’s tiny bedroom.

They slide into the bed together, Lestrade whimpering breathlessly when Mycroft rolls on top of him, kissing him hungrily and thrusting against his tender, over-sensitised flesh. When he’s close, so close, Mycroft bites down on Lestrade’s lower lip, just hard enough that Lestrade pushes up against him, and that’s the end: he gasps and comes, shaking gloriously, and settles heavily onto Lestrade’s warm, pliant body.

Lestrade grumbles softly and incoherently when Mycroft shifts, but his eyes don’t open. Mycroft traces the line of his jaw with a shaky hand and then lifts his limp hand, pressing another kiss to his palm before sucking gently on his inner wrist. He nips the skin and worries it a little, but Lestrade doesn’t react; his breath has grown deep and quiet, and Mycroft lifts himself up on one elbow to look at his oddly stern, sleeping face. 

Then he sucks a mark onto Lestrade’s other wrist, and one onto his neck, all places where a movement may leave them visible for just a moment. Just long enough to make an ordinary person wonder if perhaps it had been a shadow, and to leave Sherlock with a subtle but effective reminder that Lestrade is not his DI, no matter how often they may work together.

And then, job well done, Mycroft also goes to sleep.


	3. Control Issues

Greg fought back a grin as he took in the room: the tinseled and ornamented tree in the corner, the deep red duvet draped carelessly over the sofa, the roaring fireplace with two sparkling stockings that was the only light illuminating the room...

“Eggnog?” Mycroft asked innocently, handing him a glass.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” Greg asked in return, accepting it and sniffing theatrically. “Hm. I imagine this must be the perfect amount of rum.”

“Of course it is, and no, not at all,” Mycroft said, standing close. He ran his fingers down the lapel of Greg’s worn work suit and up again, to cup his jaw carefully. “The seduction is over, my dear. Now I’m calling it in.”

“Oh yeah?” Greg murmured, and smiled into the gentle kiss, a caress of lips and press of bodies that left them both breathless. Then Greg broke away, walking around the low sofa to the fireplace, looking back at Mycroft with a sardonic smile.

“A shag by firelight?” he said, and took a sip of his eggnog. “You know I hate that romantic shite, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled and followed him, taking the glass from his hand and placing it on the mantle. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, moving from Greg’s side to stand behind him and pull him back into Mycroft’s arms. “I think you hate the idea of it, yes. The expectation,” he added, low and soft, nudging at Greg’s ear with his nose. “But the reality...”

He slid his hand up over Greg’s chest, the other remaining low, arm resting at Greg’s waist. Slowly, with great care and delight, he kissed Greg’s neck and jaw, thrilling at the deep, contented sigh he wrung from the man, who let his head fall back as he surrendered.

“Come, now,” Mycroft whispered, and nipped at Greg’s earlobe. He started to work on Greg’s buttons, deftly working three loose before Greg made a noise and caught his hand. “What, darling?” He stressed the endearment, amused, as ever, by Greg’s twitch.

“Not doing this in front of the fire,” Greg growled, and huffed when Mycroft pressed his sharp smile to Greg’s neck and nipped there, too, sliding his hand out from under Greg’s and pulling his shirt out from where it was tucked into his trousers. “Mycroft.”

“Indulge me?” Mycroft whispered, undoing the last button. To sweeten the proposal he gently thumbed Greg’s nipple through his thin undershirt, humming in pleasure as Greg’s head tipped back again. Some quick work with his wrist and Greg’s belt was loose, Greg crying out in a lovely, throaty gasp as Mycroft pinched the nipple he’d been teasing.

He got the button loose and the zipper down before Greg’s hands clamped down on his own, arresting his movements high and low. “No,” Greg said again, laughing breathlessly, eyes sparkling as he turned his head to stare at Mycroft, “not here, you cannot lay me down in front of your fire and have your way with me--”

Mycroft cut him off with a kiss, wet and messy, licking into Greg’s mouth and rocking his hips against the sweet curve of his arse. He pinched him again and curved his hand around Greg’s slowly stiffening cock, gently encouraging his erection even as Greg’s hold tightened around his wrist. 

“You fucker,” Greg gasped, letting go to reach back and pull Mycroft more tightly to him. Mycroft kissed him again, and again, parting for harsh breaths and quick glances at Greg’s increasingly dazed and lovely expression. Then he let go, reaching across Greg to grab the hand clutching at Mycroft’s hip, and spun him around so that Greg was facing him, stunned and blinking around as if woken from a dream. 

With a quick, gentle push Greg’s trousers fell, pooling around his ankles, and Greg shook his head as if to clear it. “Mycroft--no, wait, wait--”

The last word was spoken against Mycroft’s mouth before they shared another searing kiss, Greg’s hands bunching Mycroft’s suit jacket in revenge and Mycroft squeezing each firm buttock in a slow but steady rhythm. 

“You--are--terrible,” Greg groaned, leaning heavily on Mycroft and resting his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft took Greg’s hand and brought it to his mouth, kissed it, and worked the button at the cuff loose with his mouth. He then directed it down so that he could tug Greg’s jacket and shirt off that arm, before working on the next. Greg gasped, “Terrible!” again, but let him do it.

“This, too,” Mycroft said softly, tugging at the undershirt and smiling charmingly in response to Greg’s dark glare.

“You, then,” Greg said, clutching at Mycroft’s jacket again, bunching the fabric with a satisfied smirk. Mycroft allowed him to push it off, let him get involved in unbuttoning his waistcoat, and rubbed his cheek against Greg’s short, spiky hair.

The waistcoat, the tie--Mycroft had to help him with the knot, and then with the buttons of his shirt, especially when Greg forgot about the cuffs. They swayed together, hips touching gently, and Mycroft alternated kissing and licking at Greg’s jaw to keep him too invested to again protest their venue. He let Greg get so far as to begin sliding Mycroft’s belt from his trousers before he knelt, suddenly, and smiled up at him, mouth inches from Greg’s half-hard cock.

“No, I can’t,” Greg said, and whined, high and deep in his throat, as Mycroft kissed his belly and started to squeeze his buttocks again. “Mycroft. I have to--the sofa--”

Mycroft reached out without looking, making a long arm of it, and pulled the duvet around. It fluttered into a heap behind Greg, who groaned, “No, that’s not--”

“You’ll have to step out of these, or lie down so that I may remove them,” Mycroft said mildly, and tugged on Greg’s pants. “I’m afraid the sofa doesn’t feature in my plans for the night, darling, and I’m in no mood to compromise.”

“You never compromise,” Greg grumbled, but finally, finally lay down.

“You’re too easy,” Mycroft said, carefully removing the pants and trousers from around Greg’s ankles. He lifted one foot to kiss the ankle and smiled at Greg’s amused glare. “If you can get a man to remove his coat, you can get him to remove his shoes. If you can get him to remove his shoes--” Mycroft paused, leaning forward lick one long stripe up Greg’s thigh-- “you can get him to take a drink. And if you can get him to take a drink...”

“You can shag him by the fireplace?” Greg broke in breathlessly. Mycroft leaned forward, kneeling between Greg’s spread legs, and pressed a quick, close-mouthed kiss to the tip of his now straining cock. “Oh, Christ, Mycroft!”

His hands found purchase in Mycroft’s hair, and Mycroft removed them with the ease of practice, pressing them down onto the lumpy duvet. Greg held it tight, breathing in deep, gasping breaths, sweating and trembling. He glowed in the light of the fire, just as Mycroft had known he would, and Mycroft allowed himself a smug smile before he sucked Greg’s cock into his mouth.

The sounds Greg made were loud, incoherent, and indescribably lovely, interspersed as they were with pleas for more and impassioned addresses to Mycroft and god. Mycroft coaxed him along with tongue, lips, and hands, as always enamoured of Greg’s ability to hold himself in check, once reminded by a redirection of his grip.

Thighs trembling under Mycroft’s hands, voice breaking during long moans, turning them into short, sharp, staccato groans of pleasure, and at last Greg came, swearing and shaking through it, head knocking back against the floor once or twice. Mycroft leaned forward a bit more, pressing gentle kisses to his heaving belly, until Greg’s breathing wound down and he said, almost normally, “Ow.”

“Ow?” Mycroft repeated, sitting up and getting to work on his belt. Greg threw his arm over his face, peeking at Mycroft from under it.

“I’m too old for the floor,” Greg told him, but he didn’t sound as if he meant it. He looked relaxed, almost boneless, watching Mycroft with heated dark eyes.

“You loved it,” Mycroft told him, and wriggled out of his trousers and pants. He paused to pull his socks off, and then Greg’s as well. “Sex down by the fire. I’ll get you to kiss me in the rain yet.”

He lay down next to Greg and pressed his erection against Greg’s hip, smiling when Greg blinked at him and then leaned up for a kiss. “Not going to happen,” Greg said when they’d parted, and then he pulled Mycroft half on top of him, licked his palm, and worked his hand between their bodies.

“Mm, oh, I think it will,” Mycroft said, closing his eyes and rocking slowly into that warm, loving grip.

“Not a chance.”

“Oh, don’t argue. You never win.”


End file.
